


THRESHOLD

by iceman



Series: THE RAIN AND THE SUN [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fluff and Angst, M/M, brief mention of Zsasz/Cobblepot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 01:30:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3338951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceman/pseuds/iceman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gotham had its moments - like when it was the first day of the New Year and the sky was alight with fireworks, the loud cheers of the crowd as green, blue and red dazzled across the dark blue hue of night, or the time when the streets were covered in a thin sheet of white snow despite it being a tad bit early for winter, and the city lights glowing golden and welcoming in contrast as people huddled together, sharing warmth and exchanging smiles, the hoods of their jackets pulled over their heads.</p>
            </blockquote>





	THRESHOLD

Gotham had its moments - like when it was the first day of the New Year and the sky was alight with fireworks, the loud cheers of the crowd as green, blue and red dazzled across the dark blue hue of night, or the time when the streets were covered in a thin sheet of white snow despite it being a tad bit early for winter, and the city lights glowing golden and welcoming in contrast as people huddled together, sharing warmth and exchanging smiles, the hoods of their jackets pulled over their heads.

Gotham had its moments, and Oswald had been through all of them, even though the bad outnumbered the good, Gotham was still home. And as the street lamps glittered overhead, the sound of rain water plodding across his umbrella, he took a quick sip of the hot tea he held in hand, and concluded that it was one of those very good moments.

But as all things in Gotham, it was quickly ruined. His phone buzzed, loud and angry in his pocket – Mooney wanted something done, no doubt, he could already sense it – and in his haste to pick it up while juggling between the cup and umbrella he had in hand, the cup was tilted just right for the hot liquid to splatter across the front of his suit jacket. ‘Shit! Shit, oh M-Miss Mooney, sorry I-I-I didn’t mean---’

‘Save your breath, Oswald. It’s just me.’

Of course it was, Mooney would never waste her time calling him personally when she had Gilzean to do so. It annoyed him greatly, how close the two of them were, and despite his plans of slowly climbing the ladder of Falcone’s family, Gilzean had always stood between him and Mooney. He had begun to realize that slow was just that – way too slow, took too much time and effort and countless amounts of self-degradation to even get Mooney to look at him like a _person_ and not a---

‘Penguin.’

He cringed, made a face of disgust at the nickname, though he was careful to let none of it show through the phone call, he kept his tone open and pleasant as Gilzean asked rather pointedly, ‘Did you hear what I said?’

‘Sorry, Mister Gilzean, bad connection. The rain’s rather loud. Can you repeat that?’

Oswald had never been one for following orders, despite mother’s often chiding when he was a child whenever he had come home with bruises on his skin and a black eye, telling him not to pick fights with the bad kids in school and that he should know better, being born and raised Catholic, that violence was never the answer in the eyes of God, that he should be prim and proper and her _good boy_.

And really, it wasn’t that he detested mother, quite the contrary, but it wasn’t like he could help it when the other kids called him names and shoved him around like he was nothing in their eyes. There were just some things that he could never let go, and they were, truly, condescending and mean and terrible with their insults.

It wasn’t like he had a choice.

It wasn’t like he had fought well either, being usually in the receiving ends of punches rather than being the one to throw it. It didn’t stop him from being expelled, though. Mother had been less than pleased at the news, and he didn’t understand why he had to be the one to apologize at the end of it all.

‘Right, dock fifteen, sign for the goods, yes, yes, I got it,’ he replied, nodding, though the man on the other side of the line wouldn’t be able to see it anyway. He wondered, sometimes, if he had landed himself in the wrong profession, being forced to work under someone beneath him, being forced to do all these meaningless tasks. Then he would picture himself sitting in an office, in front of a computer, typing away while his desk was piled with paper upon paper, manager breathing down his neck, and he would laugh, a short, rich giggle, and he wondered if that was what mother would have wanted.

Three days later, when he found himself at the wrong end of Jim Gordon’s gun, the rather petulant thought of ‘this is definitely not what mother would have wanted’ crossed his mind, though it was gone in the next moment as Gordon shoved him, hard, and he stumbled the next few steps forward.

In his haste to put his plan of ridding himself of Fish Mooney, he had made a fatal error in judgement. Mooney, of course, wasn’t supposed to find out that he had snitched, and the beating he had received after for his act of transgression burned both his person and his pride. He had no one else to blame but himself for his miscalculations, and it irked him, bit at him, deep and painful and ripping.

It wasn’t until Falcone had visited him personally that he realized the wonderful turn that his mistakes took him in, that despite everything, there was still a chance. A chance that he had put into the hands of a certain Jim Gordon, a detective that he had only met twice prior. Granted, there was a high percentage of success in that gamble, but it was a gamble nonetheless, and Oswald hated gambling.

He liked to be sure, precise, with no margin for error. He liked his wins guaranteed, and he had done so in being wise in the battles that he had chosen to participate in. Mooney finding out wasn’t a chosen battle, wasn’t even a fragment of possibility in any of his calculations, Jim Gordon being another unknown in the variable, he detested it, made him uneasy.

‘Good lord, have mercy,’ he said, as Gordon jammed the cold barrel against his skull, the other hand fisted tightly in the fabric of his suit. Oswald was not a religious man, by any means – though mother didn’t need to know that – but he prayed then, silent except for the clattering of his teeth, nervous, anxious, powerless.

Gordon held his life, quite literally, in his hands. Oswald fought to merely breathe. ‘Please Jim, please,’ a whisper, barely left his lips, and before he knew it, his body slammed into the freezing water below, his ears ringing, the gunshot deafening.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, doesn’t dare to. For a moment, he wondered if being so desperately cold was the result of death, but the urge to inhale air into his lungs won out, and he kicked, swam. When he broke the surface of the water, it finally sank in that he was very much alive, and that his prayers worked, that _Jim_ had heard.

 

Jim said that he was ruthless, a selfish criminal only out for his own wellbeing, that there was no chance in hell that he would even care for anyone else. Jim called him a maniac, for snitching on Fish Mooney, for coming back to Gotham, for showing up at his doorstep and waltzing into his life like he belonged.

Jim pushed him, held him up against the rough surface of a brick wall, hands clenched around his shirt, the pressure almost overwhelming. Jim told him to leave, blue eyes wide and wild and frantic. Oswald never denied anything, because Jim was right. The flare of pain that etched itself into the very bones of his right leg was proof of that.

The sudden urge to move forward and crush their lips together was proof number two.

‘I can help,’ he said instead, voice wheezing, throat tight, Jim Gordon’s weight crushing. ‘I can be your eyes and ears. Please. Jim,’ and Jim’s name rolled off his tongue, sweet and heavenly, a goddamned prayer.

When Jim decided to let him go, it was borne of reluctance, the very conflict seeped through clearly on his features, and it made Oswald smile. It wasn’t so much about the detective’s morals that drew him in, but the idea that he could, possibly, change them. He didn’t want to, of course, and really, it was pretty convoluted in itself, but as Jim had said, he was just that tad bit _crazy_. Jim made him crazy.

Jim was what Gotham felt like on its good days, when Oswald would sit back, close his eyes, and enjoy everything around him. Jim was what Gotham felt like when he had took his first step back on land after swimming for what felt like ages in the river, his bad leg an anchor, pulling him down, the grass between his fingertips feeling like salvation.

He didn’t know how to quite explain it, the alluring sense of comfort, like huddling up under a warm blanket on a chilly night, the safety, the strength in something so soft, made of wool and mother’s knitting, it was baffling, and amazing, and everything he had ever wanted.

Jim Gordon was all of those things, and there was a part of him that wanted to push and push, just to see where the line was, just to see how much it would take for Jim to break, how it’d feel for the thing that was grounding him to fall beneath his feet. It was nothing if not a yearning for power, power he had never held in his life, that Falcone and Mooney and even mother took away. He shivered, as Jim demanded to know what he had claimed to have knowledge of, as he looked into those eyes and saw solid determination, he was compelled to spill everything.

He didn’t, because in doing so, it would bring both him and Jim to ruin. He couldn’t have that, not yet, not when there were so many things he had yet done, when Mooney was still in-charge and Falcone so close in his grasp. Not when all it took was one look at Jim to bring him to his knees. No. He had always desired power above all else, and it was something that he would claim.

‘I’ll work my way up, and I give you my word, Jim, that I’ll help you in any way I can,’ not that his word had ever meant much, but a half-truth was still the truth, partial, and partial was all that mattered.

It took him two and a half weeks of working for Maroni – and a staged robbery – to finally have enough influence to get someone to snoop around for Jim’s phone number. And alright, the phone number wasn’t the exact reason for his actions, but it counted as collateral.

Jim was, understandably, furious when he called, and it made him grin like an idiot, a happy, ridiculous idiot. ‘How did I get your number, I wonder,’ he laughed, and Jim glowered on the other end. ‘Like I said, working my way up, I have connections.’

‘What do you want?’

And he stalled at that. What had he wanted to gain from calling? His mind drew blanks. He frowned, having realized that he didn’t have any ulterior motives, that he had just called because he felt like it, because he had wanted to hear Jim’s voice, because he had wanted them to _connect_. ‘Can’t I want to talk to a friend?’ He asked instead, deflecting, a half-truth.

He felt more than heard Jim sighing through the receiver. ‘We’re not friends, Oswald.’

He had not expected that to sting like it did. ‘We could be,’ he murmured, pouted, then his face lit up again as an idea hit him, ‘Friends meet up, right? For coffee or lunch or a drink at the bar. We should do that, as friends.’

‘We’re not---’

‘Please?’ The silence that followed had him ready to throw the phone against the nearest wall, it was a stupid idea, what had he been expecting? Jim would never agree to meet up, out in the open, under what he would probably think of as a pretence to catch him off guard. Jim would never want to befriend someone he had considered vile and ruthless and thoroughly insane.

Jim would never--- ‘Okay, okay fine. Just once, tomorrow, lunch break’s at one.’

After a frivolous bout of _of course, of course, anything, Jim, anything,_ Oswald had proceeded to throw his phone against the wall anyway out of excitement.

They had to choose a conspicuous location, one that Maroni and Falcone didn’t have eyes to, and one, as Jim had pointed out, that Harvey would never, ever, find them at. ‘I told him I was having lunch with Barbara,’ Jim had said when they met, all jumpy and hyper aware of his surroundings.

Oswald had considered pointing out that from that statement, it had sounded like Jim could use some friends too, but he chose to keep that observation for another time when Jim would be less likely to punch him and walk off after.

In the end, they got food at a street vendor – Jim’s suggestion, despite Oswald’s unvoiced disapproval at his food of choice – and ate sitting on a bench, away from the main roads and prying eyes. It felt more confining than it should, considering Oswald was using lunch as an excuse to befriend the other, and he kept a steady gaze on the tip of his shoes, eating his sandwich but not tasting it.

‘Did you actually want to talk about something or is this just another one of your stunts?’

Oswald did look up then, flustered, feeling his cheeks heat up, he swallowed a lump that had formed in his throat. ‘I’m not very good at this whole friend thing,’ he blurted, and Jim chuckled in response. It wasn’t forced, wasn’t a cover, a mask, a lie – it was a laugh, honest and heartfelt, and Oswald found himself following suit.

‘I can see that,’ Jim replied, smile still tugging at the corners of his lips. Honest and heartfelt and _nice_. And Oswald felt like if time had stopped right there, he wouldn’t have minded.

They had lunch together every so often after that, and if Harvey suspected anything, he never said a word about it. Oswald realized, after a number of such meetings, that he had slowly grown to be fond of sandwiches and roadside benches and Jim.

 

Twice now had Jim saved his life, twice. Maroni hitting him for lying was definitely factored in as a possibility before he carried out his plans, but he had never expected the Don to call on Jim to tell the truth. He wondered, as the detective was busy telling his end of the story, if Jim was doing it on the account of Maroni’s threats or if Jim was doing it for him.

The answer to that question shouldn’t have mattered, and he shouldn’t have pondered over it for as long as he did, but it did matter, he realized, it mattered a whole lot. He fidgeted, glancing up at Jim every so often, just trying to see, trying to figure it all out, but Jim never did offer him a second look, and he felt his chest tighten, like he was going to throw up.

‘Thank you for being honest with me,’ it was Maroni’s voice that brought him out of his misery – funny, when he looked back on it – and as Maroni stood to shake Jim’s hand, Oswald was washed with a sense of relief, though the unexplainable ache in his chest stayed, and his throat left unbelievably dry.

He mouthed a _thank you_ as Jim finally, finally spared him a look, but all he saw in those deep blue eyes was anger and hatred and a tinge of something else that he couldn’t quite explain. Maroni’s praises fell on deaf ears as he forced himself to grin in return.

He texted Jim as soon as he could, Maroni had asked him nonstop questions about Falcone and Mooney after, having at last given a breather when the Don and Frankie decided to plan out the logistics of the night’s heist. His fingers were stiff and rigid as he punched in the letters, he couldn’t stop himself from shivering. ‘I’m sorry,’ he typed out, and as if that wasn’t enough, he added, ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.’

Oswald had never been good with people, usually being on the end of teases and pranks when he was younger, he had grew to learn to be distant, that people weren’t worth socializing with. Mother, for better or worse, had supported him in those ideals, happy that he would stay at home and keep her company. Sure, he doesn’t blame her, he couldn’t bring himself to, not really, but it was undeniably an issue that he had no idea how to work with.

Jim was definitely someone that he considered his first true friend, and yet, of course, the man didn’t seem to agree. They were on opposite ends, after all, and Oswald had always been on the side of the barrel of a gun. Jim, with his drive and passion and everything Oswald could only hope to achieve, it wouldn’t be quite off the mark to say that he somewhat idolized the man.

Jim was everything he could never be. Would never be.

Jim, with his morals and kindness and willingness to help others, Oswald didn’t even _try_ to differentiate right from wrong. Niceness wasn’t something that he grew up with, and he found himself thinking if everything would be different if his life hadn’t gone down the drain quite the way it had. If he could be half the man of what Jim was.

Lying to other people was one thing, lying to himself was another, and he was never one to participate in self-delusion. He knew, truly, in his heart, that with those circumstances or not, he just wasn’t a nice guy deep down inside, because he knew that sometimes, nice wasn’t enough. Mother had always said that he was naïve. He started to believe her when he spent the next few hours constantly checking his phone to see if Jim had replied. The emptiness that followed accompanying the sense of dread that there would never be a reply had him yearning to be torn to pieces.

 

‘It’s alright,’ it read, with a smiley face at the end of it, ‘Sorry for replying so late. Had a long day. Maroni’s a real asshole, huh? The bruises looked really bad, you should have a doctor check it out.’ Oswald had almost cried in relief.

If someone had held him at gunpoint asking him how did he ever go from wanting to destroy Jim’s beliefs to being completely enthralled by the man instead, he would have no answer. He fiddled with his phone, reading the text in his mind over and over again, the smiley face making him beam brighter than the screen it was on.

‘Is something the matter, my dear boy?’ Mother had a confused look on her face as she walked in on him in his room smiling himself stupid. Her frilly dress swayed with her as she moved, meaning to sit down beside him, but he met her halfway in a hug.

Her surprise was expected, but he kissed her on the cheek nonetheless, ‘It’s a brand new day, mother,’ he said, exhilaration and exhaustion of being worried the day before all in one, ‘a brand new day indeed. I have to go, don’t wait up.’

‘Where are you going?’ She called, as he fumbled with his shirt and then with his shoes, the joy in his step overriding the ache in his leg. Jim cared. Jim _cared_. He almost went back to give mother another hug but stopped himself, though the elation never left his face. At that moment, the how or why didn’t matter, all that mattered was the stupid, ridiculous, absolutely wonderful text that he would never ever erase off his phone.

 _Jim actually cared_.

His world spun with him, all happy and celebratory. Nothing he had ever experienced in his life before had felt even close to the satisfaction. ‘Work calls. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he replied, then decided, screw it, and ran back to give mother another hug.

 

‘What’s this?’ Jim had asked when he gave the man a box. It was small, wrapped in a dark blue paper and tied up with a lighter sky blue ribbon. So okay, he might have had gotten carried away after receiving the text message, but what-the-hell-ever. He hadn’t actually known what he was doing until he had the watch in hand, looking it over, thinking of how it would look around Jim’s wrist. The price of it, of course, didn’t matter because it’d look perfect, he knew it would.

And the look on Jim’s face when he opened it, shock and surprise and awe as he touched the rose gold chain made it all worth it.

‘I can’t keep this, Oswald, you know I can’t.’

Oswald’s excitement was pulled to a screeching halt. ‘W-What do you mean you can’t keep it? D-Do you not like it? I-I-I-I can get you something else if you want. I didn’t know what to get, oh god, I didn’t consider the fact that you wouldn’t like it---’

‘Oswald,’ the simple whisper of his name had him stopping his mindless ramblings, his face flushed red from embarrassment, setting his gaze everywhere but on Jim. He had done something terribly wrong, he felt it, crawling up his spine and gnawing in his bones. Was that not what friends did – give each other presents? It was all a misunderstanding, he had wanted to say, anything, anything that stopped the weight of Jim’s gaze on him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he croaked, the words barely making it out past his lips, not knowing why he was feeling the way he did. It was ridiculous, all of it, and he hated it, weak, weak and powerless and useless and a horrible, horrible friend. It was ridiculous. _He_ was ridiculous.

When the warmth of Jim’s hand enveloped his shoulder, he didn’t quite know how to respond. He gasped, eyes meeting Jim’s, he blinked, once, twice, words catching at the very end of his throat, like he was drowning and fighting for air.

‘No, no, I like it. I like it a lot. I just,’ he stopped, and Oswald could tell that he was searching for the right words to say from the way tiny little creases appeared at the sides of his eyes when he frowned, just slightly, and there was a moment of silence when they just stood and breathed in the same air. ‘Friends don’t usually give friends such an exquisite gift,’ Jim murmured, way too close and not close enough.

 _Friends_. Jim finally called him a friend.

‘They don’t,’ Oswald replied, voice breaking right at the end, desperate and yearning and wanting, trying to hold on to something he didn’t yet comprehend.

The smouldering heat of Jim’s palm moved from his shoulder to his cheek, right under the bruise that Maroni had given him, and Jim touched it, albeit, gently, and they both exhaled, shaky, right on the edge. Right on the edge and Oswald was almost insane enough to take the fall. Jim’s lips was inches away from his own. Almost. Not quite.

When the door of the interrogation room that Jim had mindlessly dragged Oswald into due to him arriving unannounced swung open, they both jumped, and Jim’s hand left his cheek like it was burned.

‘Oh, Harvey said you were here. Um, is this a bad time? Right. I’ll be back later then,’ said the person at the door, tall, short cropped hair, large black-rimmed glasses – Oswald didn’t believe that they had met before, but he wanted nothing more than to stab the man right then and there. The door clicked shut again before Jim could formulate a reply, and the two of them were left standing, awkward, the distance once again between them.

Ridiculously hot and cold all at once.

‘Um,’ Jim started, but Oswald was already moving. ‘Just keep it. For me,’ he said, and never turned back.

Jim called him fifteen days and seven hours later with no contact in-between, and Oswald would be lying if he said he wasn’t actually counting – Gabe giving him odd looks throughout the day as he constantly looked at his phone then his watch on a goddamned loop.

He heard the call on the very first ring, but decided to let it sound a couple more times just because he could, although, technically, it wasn’t much more than petty revenge.

‘Jim,’ he answered, cheery, like the incident back at the police station never actually happened, like he hadn’t been only seconds away from kissing Jim’s parted lips. And to the detective’s credit, he acted like it had never happened too.

‘Hi. Listen, Oswald, I need a favor,’ Jim’s voice, distorted through the grainy sound waves, seemed more frustrated than usual. ‘I’m working on a case, but the suspect is too well connected, can’t seem to get close.’

Close. Just inches apart, hand on his cheek and eyes on his, searching, seeing, deciding. Jim would never take the plunge, not for him, definitely not for someone like him. ‘Anything you need,’ he replied, and realized that Jim didn’t even ask, just demanded and took and he was all too willing to give.

Oswald was far from a giving person if he couldn’t get something else he wanted in return. Mother had always gave freely to the church, helping out wherever she could, but that, that was before father had gotten devastatingly ill. Oswald had been naught but five years old then, and he remembered everything clearly. Father had always been a sickly man even before the illness took him, he worked too hard for too little, days and nights, nights and days, father had given, quite literally, his life to his job and what had he gotten in return? Nothing.

Nothing. And he would, willingly, give Jim everything? He sneered as Jim’s voice filtered through his phone, and wondered if it was all just a grave mistake.

He did some digging based on a single name Jim had given him, Gabe curious about his sudden interest in a certain Arnold Flass – though smart enough to continue to not ask questions – and after a quick interrogation of one of Flass’ men, Oswald had gotten what he was sure Jim wanted. All that mattered after that was what _he_ himself wanted. And well, Oswald never did deny that he was downright _selfish_.

Mother had taught him it was rude to show up unannounced, but he did it anyway, and Jim, well, Jim just had to deal with it. It was, surprisingly, Jim himself that opened the door, Barbara being the one to greet him the first time, and Oswald took a mental note of it but decided against asking.

Jim confirmed it a second later anyway, standing firmly in front of Oswald and blocking him from entering the house, suit jacket taken off but tie still intact, he looked like he had just gotten home not long ago, ‘What do you want? Barbara’s not here, don’t expect me to let you in like she did last time.’ And Oswald wondered if Jim’s friendship before was merely a delusion.

‘I’ve got a confession from one of Flass’ men,’ he said instead, feeling it go into the pattern all over again, deflecting, a whispered half-truth.

Jim seemed to lighten up at that, the death grip he had on the door slacking, shoulders starting to relax if but a little. ‘Oh,’ he replied, rather adorably dumbly, and Oswald resisted the urge once again to kiss him. ‘Thank you?’ A question, quickly corrected, ‘I mean. Thank you. Really. Sorry, I’m just a little bit out of it. Come in, come in.’ No, not a delusion.

He had been drinking, Oswald smelled the alcohol off him as he walked past the man, the gap of the door still too small and they brushed against each other for the barest of moments. Probably something to do with Barbara, Oswald figured, as he tried to take it all in – Jim’s apartment, Jim’s couch, table, drawers, curtains – everything, his mind everywhere and nowhere at once.

They sat opposite each other on separate couches, and Oswald would have laughed at the implications – different side of the law, two people in totally separate worlds – but he found his humor to be suddenly lacking. He gave Jim the tape, silently, the recorded confessions of a desperate man, and he knew that once Jim had heard it, he wouldn’t approve of Oswald’s methods.

He wanted to say something, a snide remark about his methods actually working better than that of the police, but when Jim raised an arm to take the tape from him, he noticed the watch he had given Jim, wrapped snugly around the man’s wrist. His breath caught, and he didn’t let go of the tape.

Their hands touched, slightly, only the faintest of hints, the bulk of the contact blocked by a piece of stupid plastic, and Oswald couldn’t help himself as he breathed, ‘You kept it.’

Jim stared at him for a moment, confused, and his cheeks gave way to a dusting of pink as his alcohol addled mind caught up with what Oswald was saying, ‘Yeah, well. I like it.’ And Oswald finally, finally closed the distance between them, the kiss gentle and frantic all at the same time, the feel of Jim’s lips, soft and yielding and parting for him, and while Jim’s mouth tasted like cheap brandy, he couldn’t have cared less.

He pulled back after the realization of what he had done slammed into him like a freight train, and he backed as far as he could into the couch he was on, the tips of his ears burning and his heart beating at a thousand miles an hour.

‘I-I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, I-I should go---’

But Jim was tugging him back, hand sliding into the mess of his hair, lips on his, kissing, moving, searing. His panic tripled, then Jim’s hand was on his thigh, rubbing, distracting. Jim moving off his couch and joining Oswald on the other instead. Oswald keened, Jim’s heat overwhelming, and when he was pushed to lie back on the couch, he followed, Jim’s leg between his, pressure dazzling.

‘Jim,’ he choked, muttered, spluttered, as Jim trailed his breath down the length of his neck, touching where his collar was buttoned up to, and Jim pulled at his tie, loosening it, nuzzling at newly exposed flesh, inhaling all shaky and unsure and driven with need.

‘Stop me,’ Jim said, his voice utterly wrecked, deep, hoarse, and way too sober for this. ‘Stop me or we’ll both regret it.’

Oswald did no such thing.

When they kissed again, the sense of dread of being rejected wasn’t there to work against him. It should have boosted his confidence, the way Jim was moving atop him like he wanted, needed to be there, but it just served as a reminder that if anything were to go wrong, he had no one to blame but himself.

It was simple, though, to solve that particular problem. All he had to do was to not think about it, and Jim was greatly helping him in the not-thinking-about-things aspect of it all. As Jim’s fingers worked to unbutton the rest of his shirt, mouth never leaving his, his mind went completely blank save for the thought that Jim was a really, really good kisser.

Oswald was never one to brag about his sexual conquests, and honestly there wasn’t much to brag about, but small as the list may be, Jim topped that straight at number one. And when Victor Zsasz was kicked down to number two in the kissing department, well, Jim definitely had a lot to be proud of. Not that Oswald actually fancied thinking about Zsasz at that moment, or in any moment at all.

It had been a sort of freak accident thing – freak was a nice way, the only way, to put it – Falcone had called him over to report on Maroni’s operations, and Zsasz had just been, well, there. Staring. Zsasz had cornered him after when he was trying to leave, and suffice to say, he wasn’t the least bit willing until the man proceeded to ravage his mouth.

He winced at the memory, and as Jim’s fingers connected with his bare chest, the sharp inhale he took overrode the sound. Jim explored with warm palms, a solid contrast to the chill of the air around them, and when Jim’s lips pressed against the pulse point of his neck and sucked, he bit his lip, stifling a moan, burying his fingers in the short length of Jim’s hair, barely holding on.

Their lips met again after Jim spent a moment on creating the largest hickey on Oswald’s neck – his pale skin bruising way too easily – and Oswald made a soft suppressed noise that the detective quickly swallowed, eager and pushing and hard, and it left Oswald totally breathless.

Then Jim grinded his hips downwards and Oswald realized how painfully hard he was. And when they broke apart, Oswald’s lips was swollen and abused and red, pupils blown wide.

Jim was looking at him with eyes that mirrored his, the color in his cheeks flowing down his neck past the collar of his still buttoned shirt and it was unfair, Oswald having been rid of his already, all exposed and at a clear disadvantage.

Oswald licked his lips, hot and bothered and desperate.

‘Come on, bed,’ Jim tried to speak, the sound rough and on edge, and Oswald watched as the haze flickered away and lucidity slipped in. It was like a record being suddenly slammed on pause, and they both stayed, Jim above him, panting, trying hard to stay in control.

‘Yeah,’ Oswald whispered, then nodded, and Jim looked relieved, as if he couldn’t believe that Oswald actually wanted to be there, with him, just as Oswald couldn't believe that Jim wanted to be with _him_. Jim offered him a hand and he took it, his legs wobbling as he placed his feet on the ground, and Jim was right there, holding Oswald against his chest.

He had to stand on his tip toes to reach the detective’s lips, just that few millimeters off, feeling Jim’s smile being pressed into him at that knowledge. He wanted to say something about that, something along the lines of it not being his fault that Jim was ridiculously tall, but the snarky comment left him as Jim’s hands found his ass through the cloth of his trousers. That, he did moan at, loud, gasping.

Jim fiddled with his belt buckle, managing to remove it one handed with practiced ease, and as the back of Jim’s thighs hit the edge of the bed, Jim maneuvered himself onto it, pulling Oswald down with him, hands moving past cloth and touching skin.

It was then that Oswald decided that it was as far as disadvantages went, steadying himself with an arm on Jim’s chest, he leaned down and used the other to rid the man of his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. The progress was halted as Jim’s hands gave an exceptionally hard squeeze, smug grin on his face at Oswald’s bit off groan.

‘You,’ he said as he canted his hips upwards and dragged the hard line of his clothed cock deliciously against Oswald’s, murmuring into his ear, ‘have a _really_ nice ass.’ And Oswald didn’t know it was possible for him to flush any brighter, but he did.

‘Shut up,’ he replied, half embarrassed and half giddily flattered, and Jim responded by pulling both his trousers and underwear down past the rounded cheeks, ‘Fuck. _Jim_.’

‘I’m not gonna last,’ Jim warned, pressing the both of them together, rubbing, Oswald leaking and smearing all over both their garments. ‘You drive me fucking crazy,’ spoken directly beside his ear, and Jim nipped at it, sucking at the lobe.

He wasn’t going to last either, his palms planted flat on Jim’s unclothed chest, gripping tight at the shoulders when he could, face buried into the fabric of Jim’s sheets, breathing in his scent. It was wonderfully maddening, the friction, Jim all around him, and then Jim was saying _Oswald, Oswald, Oswald_ over and over, all sharp and harsh and unabashedly _sweet_.

Oswald came all over himself like he was sixteen years old again.

Jim, of course, didn’t fare any better.

‘I’ve been thinking about this moment for a very long time,’ Oswald admitted later, when they were lying pressed up beside each other, Jim’s hand toying with his hair, content.

‘Yeah?’ Jim asked, blue eyes looking into his, half-lidded and satisfied, smile on his lips.

‘Yeah,’ he answered, then laughed, boyish and young and bared open, ‘We went all the way when I pictured it though.’

Jim kissed him, slow and sloppy, a stark contrast to their kisses before, and hope sparked within him when Jim murmured, soft, lips parted inches away from his, ‘It’s okay, we’ll do that next time.’ Next time. And maybe, just maybe, even though they were from two separate worlds miles and miles away, even though Jim had his moral obligations and Oswald had his misgivings, maybe, somehow, it would all work out.

Oswald touched their foreheads together and their noses bumped, an unvoiced promise that he fully meant as an _of course, anything for you, Jim_.


End file.
